with our hands clasped so tight
by strangervision
Summary: Natasha still isn't ready to look at her feelings with her heart instead of her head; still isn't ready to examine the firm connection she and Clint have; still wants to retain control over everything; still believes than love is for children. An exploration of the pretty ambiguous relationship that Clint and Natasha share, Shawarma scene included.


****Hello! I haven't really had an author's note here (I've written three stories, all under Avengers with Clint/Natasha), so I thought I'd just say hi! This was an attempt at writing a happy fic, operative word being "attempt". It obviously didn't work out very well, and I concluded that I cannot really do happy fics...only angsty/non-angst but serious fics. I fail lol. Anyway yeah, that was my first author's note! Hello! : I hope you guys enjoy reading what I write!

Jo

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**with our hands clasped so tight (waiting for the hint of a spark)**

God knows why Stark is so insistent on Shawarma (something to do with a personal reward system), but she's glad he dragged them here because frankly, she's famished. She feels like she's been through 48 hours of intensive training, but of course what they've just finished is catastrophic on a far larger scale.

The joint is wrecked, but not so much that there isn't any Shawarma left, so they pull together some tables and chairs. Clint collapses with what sounds like a grunt of relief onto one, and she settles on the seat next to his, keeping her peripheral vision on him to make sure he's not hiding a major wound. He doesn't seem to be, and she's even more sure of that when he lifts a leg and crams it in the space between her ass and the back of her chair. She shifts a little so he has more space, enough that she's still comfortable as well. If Stark notices, the only thing indicative of it is a lift in his left eyebrow for a moment as he calls the shaken owner over to order their meals. Natasha studiously ignores him.

In the time it takes for their meals and wraps to be assembled, Captain falls asleep, chin propped against his shield, and Thor commences his loud wondering about Midgardian food. Bruce is silent, as he always is, and Stark is trying to pay attention to Thor for once. Clint is still beside her, save for a little shifting until he finds a comfortable position. Then he takes out a book and lays it on his outstretched leg, starting to read. Natasha is more than a little confused, but she knows she shouldn't be.

When the food comes they all dig in, though from what she can see without lifting her head, Natasha supposes that Cap is still fast asleep. Clint is not watching anything or anyone, for once, and that's enough for her to turn to him after a bite to watch him silently. He's barely touched his food, and she normally wouldn't be worried, but a little twinge of doubt is working like a splinter into her mind. He looks like he wants to shut the world out. Quiet, Natasha rests a hand on his knee, as though to ask, _is everything okay?_ He doesn't appear to want to respond, so she continues eating eventually.

Their brief exchange hasn't gone unnoticed. Later as they leave the eatery, Stark nudges her with a smirk lifting his lip a little. She rolls her eyes and turns away, seeking Clint out amidst the group. He's hanging behind, and he looks okay, apart from the expected damage that has been done. She slows her steps until the team is in front of her and she's walking by him, lets her fingers brush against his. He looks up, and she smiled softly, an allowance that she rarely gives to anyone.

"Hey," she greets, her voice quiet enough to hide underneath Thor's grandiose tone, "Everything okay in there?"

He hums absentmindedly, knuckles connecting with hers as he wiggles his fingers in response to her. They're silent the rest of the way back.

Stark Tower, surprisingly enough, has inhabitable guest rooms on the lower floors, so that's where Tony lets them stay while SHIELD headquarters is still being revamped. The repairs and restoration for the upper half of the tower are surprisingly speedy, and in no time the Tower will be fully functional again.

Meanwhile, though, Natasha's more concerned about Clint and the way he seems to want to hole up in a nest somewhere in Zimbabwe. She trails after him to a room he picks, and when he doesn't shut the door behind him, she does it behind her. She perches herself on the edge of a couch as he stares out of Stark's glass windows, ready to do the waiting this time. He's done it for her all this time, it's her turn now and she doesn't mind. She's learnt the keeping watch from him, is not as steady and unchanging as he is in this skill, but she's decent. She lets the world drop away like she knows he does; only watching for the slightest changing in his demeanour. Long, drifting moments later, he comes in front of her and she stands, ready to go if he wants space, but he pulls her close instead, breathing in the scent of humanity she carries on her. She lets him hold her, folds her arms around him in response.

"I'm just tired," he manages, in a small murmur, and she understands.

Afterwards, when he's a little less reclusive and after they've cleaned up, they reconvene with the team in the living room space. Tony has take-out ready for them, from god-knows-where, Natasha doesn't know, wouldn't like to try to figure out. They slip into the same position as when they were eating Shawarma, and this time Tony feels like he has to say something.

"So," he talks through a mouthful of food, "you guys having a standing seating plan?"

Natasha dutifully ignores him, and she feels Clint's lips quirk into a smirk beside her as he smiles into her hair.

"Nah," Clint speaks, his voice tired but still bright, "Not really."

"Huh," Tony says in response, but Natasha's half-assed glare is enough to shut him up in his seat. He prefers to finish his meal in peace, it seems, and that's as good a decision as any.

If you gloss over the part where there was a fleet of alien soldiers coming to war in Manhattan from outer-space, and the part where a god is sitting with them eating take-out, this feels like it always feels after a tough mission. Natasha still isn't ready to look at her feelings with her heart instead of her head; still isn't ready to examine the firm connection she and Clint have; still wants to retain control over everything; still believes than love is for children.

But maybe if she allows herself a fifth of honesty with her vodka, she'll admit that in the wake of everything she's witnessed in the past forty-eight hours (aliens and magic and spaces between spaces considered), she feels pretty small, she feels like a child again.


End file.
